


scabs

by wormguts



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parent Willis Todd, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Burns, Canonical Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Jason Todd is Robin, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sexual Abuse, Pre-Jason Todd's Death, Rating May Change, Self-Harm, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drug Use, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27788935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts
Summary: He has scabs on his knees and burns on his thighs.Bruce doesn't ask, but maybe he should've.In which Jason's new life at the manor is full of miscommunication, and Jason doesn't know what Bruce wants from him. Unfortunately, Bruce doesn't seem to know what he wants, either.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Willis Todd
Comments: 18
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have this garbage *chucks it at your face*
> 
> the PLAN here is to have this very very very slow burn dumpster fire span all the way through Jason's death and resurrection and up to his reappearance in Gotham but who knows. i struggled with pacing a lot so i hope things are okay in that respect!
> 
> warnings and ratings will change as i write. please heed trigger warnings!

He has scabs on his knees and burns on his thighs.

Bruce doesn’t ask. He wants to, but he has a feeling the kid will tell him to screw off and go back to sulking in the back seat.

He keeps quiet.

+

The manor is strange. Maybe it’s the dusty old smell or the empty, hollow feeling inside. The shadows stretch and sigh like they haven’t seen people in years. And maybe they haven’t. Maybe all the people inside got swallowed up by the emptiness and withered away into the wallpaper.

Bruce Wayne leads him up a big, winding staircase to the second floor. They pass about a hundred doors before Bruce picks one, swinging the door open and guiding Jason inside.

“This will be your room,” he says with no preamble, and Jason’s eyes bug out.

“Mine...?” He glances around the room wearily. It’s… well, it’s fancy, of course. He doubts anything on Wayne property is anything _but_ fancy. But more than that, it’s _huge_. It’s around three times the size of Jason’s old place, with what look like two closets and an attached bath. He bets there’s even a balcony hiding somewhere.

“Just how rich are you?!” he blurts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. Shit.

Bruce blinks. “I understand if this is overwhelming,” he says in place of actually answering. Though, to be fair, Jason figures anyone would keep mum about their money, billionaire or not. “This is probably a lot to take in.”

Yeah, understatement of the year. He’s pretty sure that dresser over there is mahogany. Jason’s never seen mahogany in person, of course, but don’t all rich people have mahogany shit?

 _Maybe this is all a sick joke,_ he thinks, woozy with the possibility. He gawks at the king-sized bed, the dresser, the plush rug under his toes and feels dirty. The Cave and the tech were somehow more believable (the guy’s Batman, after all), but this? This is another ballpark. 

Eventually, his gaze drifts back to Bruce, who watches him expectantly, hands clasped behind his back.

“Well? How do you like it?”

Well. “It’s… big.”

A frown crunches Bruce’s brow. “I can find a smaller one, if you’d like.”

Jason stares at the wallpapered accent wall behind Bruce and wants to scream. Find a smaller one…? Just how many rooms does the manor have? And who needs this much space? As far as he’s seen, the only people living here are Bruce and that butler (who’s probably older than the manor itself).

“Ah, that’s... okay,” he says slowly, awkwardly shuffling his feet. “I’m just not used to being in such a nice joint.”

Bruce nods, says, “You’ll settle in quickly, I’m sure,” and Jason has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something stupid.

He swallows around the lump in his throat. He can feel his filthy clothes and tattered shoes cling to his skin like mold. He probably reeks of piss and cigarettes and Gotham, yet there Bruce Wayne stands in an outfit worth more than the average apartment complex.

“If you change your mind, let me know and I’ll have Alfred arrange another room for you. The ensuite is over to the left, and there are clothes in the dresser for after you wash up.”

Bruce pauses, considering, one foot practically out the door. “If you need anything… anything at all, I’m right down the hall. On the left. With the double doors. Can’t miss it.” He smiles like it pains him.

With that, the man’s job is done, apparently. He gives Jason an awkward pat on the shoulder, and before Jason knows it, he’s stepping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him.

Jason slinks to the floor, too exhausted to stand any longer. The too-big room spins around him, the carpet soft under his cheek. It’s more comfortable than his old bed.

 _"Oh, baby. What’d you get yourself into?"_ whispers a voice that sounds suspiciously like Willis.

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

He crawls to the bed eventually, even if the carpet is plenty comfortable. He doesn't think Bruce would appreciate finding him spread-eagle on the floor. But even with the clean sheets and spacious bed, he lies awake for hours, staring into the darkness of the unfamiliar room, tension dripping from every pore.

There must be something wrong. He waits for the other shoe to drop, for the _terms and conditions_ to kick in. Only… nothing happens. Bruce doesn’t come to his room or call for him once, not even to check on him. He doesn’t say anything at breakfast, nor on his way out the door. He doesn’t even comment on the bags under Jason’s eyes.

Dinner that night is the first time Bruce mentions Dick.

Jason isn't stupid. He knows there was a Robin before him. He caught glimpses of the green pixie boots long before he tried to jack the Batmobile’s tires. But no one ever said what happened to him. Naively, Jason had hoped that he’d gotten away, was happy now without Bruce.

But Bruce is bitter in a way that scares Jason. He doesn’t say much about this Dick kid, but it’s what’s left unsaid that makes dread sink low in his gut. Did things end badly? What’s the guy doing now? Is he even _alive?_

He skirts around Bruce for a few days to feel him out. Bruce minds his business, goes to work and comes home again, but there aren’t any lingering glances, no sneaking touches. He barely speaks to Jason, and when he does, it’s always about work, or Batman, or the previous Robin (Jason thinks it’s weird it’s always ‘Robin’ and never ‘Dick’). Bruce doesn’t ask about his parents, or his friends, or where he got so many scars. He doesn’t ask about the scabs.

Most days, it’s just Jason and the old butler until the evening. Jason has a feeling Alfie doesn’t appreciate Jason orbiting him all day like a persistent gnat, but there isn’t anything else to do. He could get lost in a house like this before he found something other than dust and the ghosts of Bruce’s dead parents.

Bruce is a nice man. Jason doesn’t think he’d send him away so soon, but he’s only just met him.

 _Maybe I’m ugly,_ he thinks numbly. _I must be dirty and gross. He must know_.

And maybe he does. He’s Batman, after all.

As the days pass, he doesn’t grow any more comfortable in his room, the manor, or his skin. He doesn’t care for the manor much, but he can’t say he misses the streets. He can’t say he misses much of anything of his old life. He might lie, if Bruce asked, but Bruce doesn’t.

So, Jason keeps quiet.

He isn’t sure if anyone knows about the cigarettes. So far, he’s evaded even Alfred’s watchful eye, and the old man's the most perceptive person Jason’s ever had the misfortune of pussyfooting. He might even be more observant than Bruce, though the guy’s generally constipated when it comes to human interaction outside of the bat suit, so that ain't saying much. 

He keeps to his room. He slips out to the balcony at night to smoke and watch the moon bathe the gardens in eerie light. He lets his legs dangle over the edge, thighs squished between the spokes of the railing. It’s peaceful. Perfect for getting away, taking an hour or two to breathe.

Tonight, he’s anxious for reasons he doesn’t want to inspect too closely. He lets each drag of the cig fill his lungs slowly, savoring it. He’s almost out. He’ll have to sneak out to buy another pack.

He exhales with a frown, the tendrils of smoke curling up towards the moon. It’s a little chilly out. He’s only wearing a t-shirt and briefs, but he likes the bite of the wind against his bare legs. Plus, it’s easier to reach like this.

He inhales a final drag of the cig.

He doesn’t feel it at first. It’s like his body doesn't expect the sensation, can’t fathom why Jason would do such a thing. In truth, Jason doesn’t know why he does it, either. But it’s pleasing, somehow. Within a fraction of a second, the pain flares, hot on his upper thigh. He can’t hold back the quiet hiss that slithers past his clenched teeth. The first one is always the worst.

He used to get worked up, before. He’d psych himself out, worry his bottom lip and contemplate how much it’d hurt, the placement, the scarring. But that was years ago. Jason’s familiar with the routine now.

Breathe. In, out. The pain is worst in the beginning. Choose a new patch of skin near older scars; it’s less sensitive there. Breathe. Be quiet. Gradually up the time. Three seconds, four seconds. Relax. This is good. Feel the pain and remember. Five seconds, six seconds. Don’t get snot on the new burns or it’ll hurt like a bitch. Breathe. Good. Review your work.

_“Aren’t they pretty?”_

No. They’re ugly. They aren’t.

By the time it’s over, he’s boneless and out of breath. It’s something like a high. It’s something like an emotional release.

He never wraps them after. He simply dons a pair of loose shorts and climbs into bed, too drained to do much else. In the morning, he looks them over and decides where he’ll hurt himself next. 

The Robin suit was one of the first things he saw on his initial trek from the Cave to the manor, but he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Sure, the design is a little… questionable, but Bruce is an enigmatic billionaire not even his lifelong butler can understand, so Jason doesn’t let it keep him up at night.

He wishes he could smack God and spit in his face.

“You want me to… put it on?”

“Yes,” Bruce replies in a very grave, serious manner.

“But—!”

Bruce is unperturbed by the distressed squeak Jason makes when he plops the costume into the boy’s arms. “Change and come back. I’ll see what needs to be adjusted and improved upon.” Beside him, Alfred nods along.

It takes a moment for the words to fully sink in. When they do, his ears ring with static.

So far, he’s been wearing mostly pants and long sleeves because of the weather, sometimes long shorts if he’s feeling brave. Can he put in a request for actual pants on this thing? Tights? _Something_?

“Is that really okay?” he asks. “I mean, this isn’t, like—Won’t Dick be upset? This is his costume, right?”

Bruce blinks but otherwise gives no indication he heard Jason.

Alfred is more forthcoming in both his expression and his ability to speak like a normal human being. “This is just to get an idea of how your costume will look and fit. You won’t be wearing this out on patrol.” He gives Bruce a look that could curdle milk. “Isn’t that right, Master Bruce?”

Bruce simply grunts and swivels away in his seat at the Batcomputer to face the monitor. Hysterically, Jason wonders if everything in this place has bat in the name. Batchair? Batmonitor? _Batoilet?_

Alfred’s harsh expression smooths out. He sends an encouraging smile to Jason. “You remember where the showers are located, I presume? You may change there.”

Jason does, unfortunately. He stumbles away under Alfred’s keen eye, ears an incriminating shade of scarlet. He changes quickly. He tries to ignore the way the bottoms bunch awkwardly in the front, the tunic too short to cover it. He tries not to imagine what Bruce’s reaction might be.

When he returns, Bruce is where he left him. Alfred has migrated somewhere else, probably to make tea or polish silverware or something. It’s just the two of them now.

As though feeling eyes on the back of his head, Bruce turns abruptly. He regards Jason silently for a moment.

“Come closer.”

Jason ignores the urge to bolt up the stairs. He approaches Bruce on shaky legs. Shaky bare legs. His hands tremble.

Bruce doesn’t say anything when he stops before him. His hands form fists on his thighs. It’s mostly to hide the awkward fitting of the panties, but also as a barrier between Bruce’s searing gaze and… and—fuck.

“Turn around,” Bruce instructs softly. His attention is focused above the waist, but Jason knows it hasn’t escaped Bruce’s notice.

Jason does as he’s told, spinning slowly despite the growing mortification gnawing at his insides. He almost wishes the old butler were down here too, just to relieve some of the tension. He bets his face is a rather ugly shade of red.

Once Bruce is satisfied with inspecting the back of the costume, he gently turns Jason around again with a hand to his bare arm. “It must be uncomfortable,” he says.

Jason doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Bruce thankfully saves him further grievance by standing. “Don’t worry,” he adds.

Jason can only cringe. _Later_ , he thinks. _Later I’m going to have a freak-out about this. Right now, I need to get the hell out of these panties._

As Jason’s coming to learn, Bruce doesn’t say much of anything about shit that make him uncomfortable. Jason hasn’t pinpointed what, _exactly_ skeeves the man out, but if it has anything to do with the complex exigency of human emotion, it’s a safe bet.

Jason is mostly thankful for the billionaire’s ineptitude. For one, it means he’ll never breech the subject of—of healing, especially not with his eleven-year-old ward.

Sadly, the same cannot be said of Alfred.

Two days later, Jason finds supplies in the cabinet under the sink of his private bath. He thinks about Alfred purchasing them from Walgreens with the fortitude of a highly trained manservant and has to stuff his face into a pillow to stifle his embarrassed giggles. 

One day, he’ll thank Alfred. Maybe when he’s old and grey. Maybe never. But until then, he’s taking this to his grave.

Things take a turn for the worse.

Bruce decides he won’t let him on patrol until he can get a solid hit on him during training. That’d be fine with Jason if Bruce wasn’t _Batman_.

“I won’t hurt you,” Bruce promises, and Jason can only hope he means that in a less menacing way than it sounds.

“Well, I won’t go easy on ya,” Jason grins. It’s maybe a little feral, maybe a little unhinged, but Bruce seems to like it, if his half-smirk is anything to go by.

“I like your spunk, kid.”

Spunk. That’s… an interesting choice of words.

He scrunches his face is distaste, to which Bruce huffs a laugh. “C’mon now, little guy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

As it turns out, Jason absolutely sucks.

“That’s okay,” Bruce says earnestly. “I didn’t expect you to beat me.”

_Gee, thanks._

At Jason’s expression, Bruce backtracks quickly. “What I mean is that—”

“I know what you mean, old man,” Jason interrupts from the floor. “Still, way to wound a man’s pride.”

“Do you need help up?” Bruce offers, to Jason’s complete embarrassment. He waves him off as though physically swatting the idea away. He’d like to lie here on the mats for at least an hour, until the sweat coating his skin cools and dries and his bloody nose quits clogging his throat. He’d like to lie here forever, actually, if it means never getting the absolute shit beat out of him by Batman again.

Bruce shuffles over to the edge of the training room where two water bottles and a granola bar sit. He takes one bottle for himself and offers the other to Jason, who begins chugging it in earnest.

Bruce settles before him in what looks like a resting yoga pose, watching him. After a while, he unwraps the bar and says, “Eat.”

“Don’t wanna,” Jason groans, rolling away from Bruce. He’s back to lying on it and wilting.

That doesn’t seem to please Bruce.

“You need the calories after such an intense workout, Jason. Trust me.” He inches forward, and Jason rolls, and it’s like that for about two seconds before Bruce’s patience runs out and he stops Jason from wriggling out of his reach by grabbing his shoulder. He forcefully pushes Jason onto his back, and before Jason can comprehend what’s happening, he’s got a mouth full of granola.

He chokes slightly, but Bruce’s death glare might as well be the Heimlich maneuver. He obediently chews and swallows and lets Bruce feed him the rest of the bar in silence. It’s a little—well, it’s a lot weird, what with Bruce’s hand firm on his sweaty shoulder, holding him down, _feeding him_. He stares up at Bruce hovering over him and wonders if today will be the day.

It isn’t, nor is the next. It’s the weekend before Jason knows it, and he has nothing to show for it.

_Why take me in?_

He wants to ask. It’s the biggest thing Jason doesn’t understand. Besides the possibility of becoming Robin, Jason has nothing much to offer. He’s a lousy street rat with bad table manners and a penchant for violence. The only thing he’s good for is doing the job no one else wants, the job designed for street kids with a pliant body and nobody around to care where they disappear to.

But for some reason, Bruce doesn’t seem to want that. Jason can’t tell what he wants. He’s unlike any man Jason’s ever been with.

It’d be easier to swallow if Bruce were outright with it. He wishes Bruce would come out and say what he wants instead of evading the issue like one wrong move and Jason’s going to shatter into a million pieces. Bruce doesn’t have to worry so much; there’s nothing left of him to break.

_Maybe Bruce is waiting for the okay,_ he thinks a few days later.

He watches the man read by firelight, the flames casting a pretty orange glow onto his sun-kissed skin. The bridge of his nose is sunburnt. Jason noticed a few freckles hiding there yesterday too.

Jason’s own book sits neglected next to him. He’s lying on the sofa in a sleep shirt and shorts, fresh from the bath. His hair is damp against the cushions. He watches Bruce and thinks, one hand idly stroking the healing skin of his knee.

Bruce isn’t paying attention to him. He hasn’t looked over here once save the soft smile he gave Jason when he first stormed in here and collapsed across from him. They’ve taken to reading in silence after dinner. Bruce said it’s a good way to relax before he heads out for patrol.

Jason doesn’t feel all that relaxed. Normally, he’d be engrossed in Jane Austen by now, but he feels restless, his body tingly. He doesn’t like this state of ambiguity. It’s clear there’s something Bruce isn’t telling him, but he has yet to breech the subject. Is he ashamed? Jason doesn’t think so, not if he went through the effort of adopting Jason and thus ensuring he became completely dependent on him. Logically, that’s the best course of action. He gets to do what he pleases with Jason and Jason has no say in the matter. Not that he’d really put up a fight. He came here expecting it.

He sighs and shifts, his shirt hiking up with the movement. He made sure to take an extra long bath tonight. He’s made sure to every night, actually. But nothing ever happens. It’s nearing two weeks now and Bruce has yet to even look at him longer than ten seconds at a time outside of training.

It makes him feel small. Small and ugly. He’s never felt like this before, not even when bad things would happen. He doesn’t think it’d be bad with Bruce. Bruce is a nice man with a pretty face and lots of money. Jason could do a hell of a lot worse.

It’s as he sighs and twists uncomfortably for a third time that he notices Bruce’s eyes on him. His book hangs from one hand, abandoned. He’s traded Tolstoy for Jason, choosing to study the boy before him instead.

“Hey, B,” Jason says, quiet. His belly is exposed. Bruce’s gaze flicks down towards it, resting there for a moment. Jason’s heart jumps against his ribs. He can feel Bruce’s stare like a brand, traveling over his thighs, his legs, his toes. He’s small in a way most like. Pliable. He hopes that’s what Bruce likes.

The man doesn’t say anything. Eventually, his stare softens, traveling back to Jason’s face. He offers a one-sided smile. “Alfred’s making cookies,” he says.

When he sniffs, Jason can smell the faint scent of gingerbread wafting through the open doorway, but it does little to stifle the disappointment sinking his hesitant hope.

He stands slowly, making a show of dragging his shirt up higher to lazily scratch his belly. Bruce’s eyes dip down to watch his nails leave pink trails on his soft skin. He asks, “Do you want me to bring you some?” and if he means: _do you want me?_ that’s just as well.

Bruce turns his attention back to his book, crossing one long leg over the other, stating he’ll be heading down to the Cave anyway. Something about getting old and the sugar going to his gut. Jason isn’t listening.

“Robin once swung from the chandelier,” Bruce says at dinner one night, apropos of nothing. Alfred's busy piling Jason’s plate with a mountain of spaghetti, but the look he sends Bruce could re-freeze the icecaps.

“Do not give him ideas, sir.”

“We had it reinforced for a reason.”

Jason chews a meatball with wide eyes. Seeing his expression, Alfred sighs. “Well, I suppose nothing is worse than crashing the Batmobile.”

Jason chokes. “He _what?!”_

And then Bruce chuckles, and Jason feels warmth seep deep into his bones. Bruce’s laugh is nice enough to startle him. His real laugh, the one he saves for moments like this, with Alfred by his side and Jason across from him, is sweet. It makes Jason want to curl up under Bruce’s skin and live there forever.

Two weeks at the manor and Jason finally lands a hit. He leaves the Cave with Bruce for the first time as Robin and comes back battered and bruised, just the way he likes it.

Willis used to say Jason was dropped on his head as a baby.

“You got dropped wrong,” he’d say sometimes, hands clasped in his lap all _solemnlike_ , as though there’s a correct way to drop an infant. “It messed somethin' up. Made you all _angry_ inside.” He’d point to Jason’s chest with a dirty fingernail and scowl, and Jason would stand his ground because the old man ain’t got shit on him. “Made you all _ugly_.”

It’s unclear whether said dropping ever actually occurred or was a figment of the man’s booze-addled brain. It isn’t like Jason can ask mom or Willis anyway, but it makes him think.

If he was dropped, maybe something got screwed up in there. Maybe that’s why he does this almost every night. It’s like some kind of addiction, except he doesn’t even _like_ it. Mom liked her drugs enough to sell him. Jason would kill himself before he ever did that to someone else.

He still doesn’t really understand how addiction works. Mom liked her drugs, but Willis hated his booze, hated how it made him. Mom’s drugs knocked her out, but Willis got mean. It made him weird.

Jason can almost feel Willis’ hand over his own, guiding the smoldering cigarette to his leg. The phantom feeling sends shivers up and down his spine. He feels cold and dead inside. It’s like his body’s rotting from the inside out.

_"It’s okay. Don’t cry. It’ll be over before you know it."_

He watches with dread as his own body betrays him. His arm lowers without his permission as if Willis really is there, forcing it down. The thought makes him want to scream until his throat bleeds.

The first press to his skin makes him cry out. It’s a loud, choked sound that echoes horrendously. He doesn’t let up, chest heaving as the smell reaches his nose. Distantly, he realizes he’s crying.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. It feels like two seconds and two hours all at once. Frankly, he doesn’t want to know how long he spends on the balcony, burning his legs up.

+

Down the hall, on the left, behind the double doors Jason’s never seen past, Bruce blinks awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so terrible i apologize
> 
> let me know how you like/hate it
> 
> scream at me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/bedguts)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update time!!
> 
> just a warning: briefly mentioned childhood sexual abuse near the end. it isn't graphic, just briefly mentioned. also just to be clear, the underage and referenced abuse tags are referring to Willis' abuse of Jason, not Bruce. Bruce is at least a decent guy here and unless i change my mind, that will stay true at least to the end of this story (no promises for the next tho hehe)
> 
> happy reading! ﾐ☆( *uωu人)+ﾟ.

The door opens with a creak. Like everything else in this lonely old place, it must be tired of the quiet too.

He hunches his shoulders and curls so far into himself his spine groans in protest. Behind him, the door clicks shut.

“Jason…”

The sound of his voice is haunting in the moonlight. It’s unearthly, like some unsightly being that isn’t meant to exist outside the four walls of his bedroom. It’s rough with sleep. If Jason turns his head, he bets the man has ugly bedhead. If such a thing were even possible for Bruce Wayne.

“I heard you,” Bruce says.

Jason clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispers pathetically.

The ensuing silence is deafening. He wonders if Bruce will send him away for this. Surely, he wouldn’t want a fucked-up kid as his sidekick. But then, why hadn’t he backed out the moment he saw Jason’s body? Why let Jason hope? Why stand there in silence as the smell of his burnt flesh clings to the air?

 _"He don’t want you,"_ a familiar voice hisses. _"He’s never wanted you. You think anyone could want you like I do? You think anyone could want a sick little fuck like you? Just look at yourself."_

Jason doesn’t want to, but he obeys the voice like a puppet its master. He stares aft his legs and lets the image bleed to memory. He stares until he can’t anymore, and then stares more.

He wants to look away. He wants to pretend Bruce isn’t inching closer, that he won’t see how truly revolting Jason is, but he can’t. He sits and breathes and stares because there isn’t anything else he _can_ do. And even this seems to be too much. His chest aches something awful, ribs piercing his lungs with every inhale. Bruce is going to get rid of him, just like everyone else, and Jason can’t even blame him.

The wind rustles a nearby tree, disrupting the dead leaves still clinging to its branches. Bruce eases down next to him. He doesn’t look over at Jason. He stares at the moon, and Jason stares at his burns.

“I’m… _I_ should be sorry,” Bruce starts, hesitant, like he’s trying out how it feels to speak into a black hole.

Jason just hugs his legs tight to his chest and curls his arms around his knees and waits for his undoing. Dark eyes track the movement.

“I don’t know what to do.”

It’s a sad little admission. Bruce lets his words fall flat, abandoned in the space between their bruised and broken bodies. The wind caries them away with the leaves below, lost but not forgotten.

“Me neither,” Jason finds himself saying.

Bruce picks at a thread of his silk pajama bottoms. He twirls it tight around one finger, lets the blood pool there, cut off from the rest of his body, until he can’t stand it. It’s a tick Jason’s never noticed before. He wonders if Bruce is uncomfortable.

“We shouldn’t be out here in this weather,” Bruce eventually mutters, and Jason can hear his disgruntled pout. It’s… kinda cute, actually. Bruce would use his face as a punching bag if he ever heard Jason call any of his facial expressions _cute_ or anything within _five football fields_ of cute, but Jason can’t help himself. Bruce Wayne _can_ be cute. Sometimes.

“You’re out here too, old man.”

“Only because you are.”

Jason thinks that says something about the man but wisely keeps his mouth shut.

“You could go inside,” he offers, though it’s more a question than anything else. He doesn’t know the bureaucratic intricacies of bossing a billionaire around in his own home.

“I could,” Bruce says mysteriously. “But you could too.”

 _“I’m_ not cold.”

Bruce eyes him skeptically. “Don’t try to hide your shivering, Jason.”

With a jolt, Jason realizes he _is_ shivering, however minutely. How did he notice that?

Ah, right. He’s Batman. It’d be weirder if he _didn’t_ notice. What else has he noticed? A brief pang of alarm only worsens his shivers.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Bruce phrases it like a question, an unsaid plea, but it’s as much a demand as Jason’s heard.

He wants to ask why but is afraid of the answer.

Bruce shuts the balcony door behind them with finality.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“I don’t _need_ your help.”

“I know.”

“I’ve done this plenty of times before. I know what I’m doing!”

That, it seems, is the wrong thing to say. Bruce pauses, a roll of gauze limp in his grasp. His back straightens ever so slightly, jaw clenching like a wild beast poised for attack.

“You will not do this again,” he says slowly, as though addressing a goldfish.

“Do _what_ , exactly?”

An anchoring grip on his shoulder keeps him from darting from the room. He feels his body relent immediately, offering itself on a silver platter, nervous tremors receding into his joints. He isn’t sure when Bruce mastered such a move, or how. He ignores the more pressing: _since when could he use it on me?_

“I’ll do this from now on.”

For a harrowing moment, Jason thinks of that night.

A similar phrase, spoken half a decade prior. The fifth cigarette of the pack. A cold night—the witching hour. No central heating. Jason’s toes tucked into the crease between the cushion and the arm of the couch. A man above him, smoke heralding his approach; a warning. Jason isn’t wearing pants.

_Jason isn’t wearing pants._

“Jason?”

He exhales shakily. The manor has central heating. He’s wearing a shirt and Bruce is wrapping his thighs in gauze. He burnt through his last cigarette.

Bruce doesn’t ask if he’s alright. He binds Jason’s shame in medical grade bandages and strokes the smooth skin of his legs. Jason isn’t stupid enough to accept it at face value.

The next morning, Bruce leaves before breakfast.

Bruce has never skipped breakfast.

“Master Bruce is busy at the office,” Alfred explains, placing a steaming plate of eggs in front of Jason. “He’ll be home late today as well.”

“What’s he so busy with anyway?” Jason demands, glaring at the eggs. They smell heavenly, but he’s suddenly not hungry.

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “I am not privy to the projects Master Bruce is working on.”

“Well, you _should be_.” He stabs a particularly fluffy bit of egg with his fork. He hears Alfred sigh tiredly.

“Yes, Master Jason.”

“Come here, Robin.”

Jason straightens immediately, abandoning a wonky looking gargoyle he’s decided is his favorite to trudge over to Batman’s side. It’s drizzling slightly, the raindrops sliding off his black cape in trails.

“Yeah, B?”

Bruce stands as he always does, scanning the streets of Gotham below with a grim expression. He doesn’t turn to Jason.

“…Are you cold?”

“Huh?”

“The rain.”

“Oh…”

Now that he thinks about it, he is. He was cold earlier too when his opportunity to apologize for the previous night was swept away by Bruce's absence from both breakfast and dinner, both of which he's never missed. Jason a complete idiot; he knows Bruce is uncomfortable. The man may be mysterious in the suit, but outside, he's a creature of routine. The only thing to disrupt that carefully crafted routine is a situation out of his control.

“Robin.”

“Y-yeah?”

Bruce opens his cape wordlessly. He offers his free hand, palm up. Jason takes it tentatively. The man pulls him close to his body, so close Jason can feel his warmth through the thick Kevlar. He wraps his cape snug around Jason, the boy flush against him.

“Is that better?”

Cocooned in this dark, warm place, Bruce’s voice is a vibration against Jason’s cheek. His arms circle Bruce’s waist, head against his chest, and lets himself melt into a puddle of goo.

“Much, _much_ better.” 

Shortly after patrol, Bruce finds him on the balcony again.

The rain has since stopped, though heavy clouds hang in the sky like wet balls of cotton. Jason doesn’t have a cigarette this time. He’s picking at the skin of his shins with a pair of tweezers. Mostly, he’s thinking.

“What do you want.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He leans against the railing and stares at the polluted skyline.

“Isn’t that a funny question.” He chuckles somewhat morosely, gripping the railing with too much force. White knuckles. Jason sits and regards him wearily. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to Jason. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to anyone at all.

 _Why would Bruce talk to me anyway?_ Jason thinks bitterly. _What does an eleven-year-old even know about being an adult?_ Yet even as he thinks this, he knows better. In the back of his mind, in a locked chest hidden by dust and cobwebs, is his proof. If being an adult means hurting kids like him, he doesn’t want to be one.

He sighs in exasperation. “Well, you’re kinda ruinin’ the mood here, old man. Don’t you have a balcony too?”

“I do.”

God, this is infuriating. Jason scowls at the sky and wishes it would start raining again and ruin Bruce’s expensive sleepwear.

“Come to my room,” Bruce says, and Jason nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Uh?” he squeaks intelligently. His stomach is doing a weird thing. He wonders if Bruce can hear it flopping around inside of him or if he even cares.

“My room,” Bruce supplies, finally giving Jason his full attention. “Come with me.”

Oh. That’s…

He follows Bruce in a haze. Before he can process how he got there, he’s standing in the middle of a dim, unfamiliar room. Pushed against one wall is Bruce’s unmade bed. It looks like he’s just left it. It looks like it’s still warm.

Bruce motions for him to sit on the rumpled sheets. He disappears through a doorway, presumably the bathroom, and Jason’s stomach flip-flops again.

He’s never been in Bruce’s room before. It was the only place Alfred forbade Jason from entering, the only part of the manor he hadn’t included in his grand tour on Jason’s first day. He gave Jason permission to go anywhere on the property, even his own bedroom should Jason ever require him during the night. All except Bruce’s room.

 _‘Those are Master Bruce’s quarters,’_ he said. _‘They are private.’_

Private. The word sits funny in Jason’s brain.

Alone, he’s safe to take a few steadying breaths and catalogue his surroundings. A lamp on the bedside table is the only source of light. An analogue clock reads 4:34 a.m. The curtains are drawn. If he weren’t so terribly on edge, he might think it’s a nice room.

He’s in the middle of pulling his shirt over his head when Bruce returns.

He stops short. “Are there burns on your stomach?”

Jason doesn’t understand the question until he does. He feels himself blush furiously when he sees the first aid kit in Bruce’s hands. Of course. Of _course_. He feels his bottom lip wobble dangerously.

He avoids Bruce’s gaze. He sits next to Jason on the bed, opens the kit, and begins to unwrap the bandages he covered Jason’s hurt with just the day before. He touches Jason’s bare knee, asks, “Is this okay?” in such a soft, gravely tone that Jason’s mind conjures all sorts of traitorous images.

He nods mutely. He doesn’t trust himself not to say something he’ll regret.

He doesn’t cringe at the sting of hydrogen peroxide against the worst of the burns. Most are still open, weeping slightly. Bruce is gentle as he cleans Jason up, humming at Jason’s red, tender skin.

“Does it hurt?”

Jason bites his lip. Bruce is so close. He could reach up and thread his fingers through his hair. He could kiss him. 

He sticks to nodding again.

Soon, Bruce is wrapping his legs once more and taping the gauze in place. He’s quiet about it, thorough and methodical. But all too soon, Bruce is finished, and Jason doesn’t know what to do.

Bruce packs up the kit and sets it on the bedside table. Jason tries to place his expression. His face is wan, the shadows under his eyes a deep purple. Every bit of him screams of a bone-deep weariness.

 _"He’s tired of you,"_ Willis whispers, and Jason believes him.

Bruce relaxes against the headboard with a heavy sigh. He rubs the bridge of his nose, eyelids fluttering closed.

“Can I stay here?” Jason finds himself asking.

Bruce cracks one eye open before Jason can slip between the floorboards and disappear. The ghost of something tugs his brows together. Jason can't, for the life of him, parse what it means. He wants to throw up.

“If you want to,” Bruce murmurs. He pats the space next to him.

Hesitantly, Jason crawls over to him and curls up on his side. Bruce lowers himself down with a pleased groan until he’s flat on his back, arms flopping over his head on the fluffy down pillows. One comes temptingly close to Jason’s curls. If Jason slithered just a handful of inches closer, Bruce would be holding him. It shouldn’t brew a heady mix of shame and desire deep within him, shouldn’t make him want to whine and writhe beside Bruce until he gives Jason the attention he wants.

Bruce pulls the blankets over the both of them, smiling softly at Jason’s little face peeking up at him. “Goodnight, Jay.”

Something inside of him breaks. He feels the moment it shatters, that unidentifiable ache inside of him that’s been festering, _growing_ for longer than he can remember. He doesn’t know what it is, what could possibly hurt this much. He watches Bruce and blinks through the sudden urge to cry.

He’s never had a nickname that doesn’t rhyme with “itch” before.

He moves before he can think better of it. He presses into Bruce’s side, clutching his shirt tight. He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of Bruce’s skin, his shampoo, the detergent Alfred uses. He’s warm and solid and big. Jason wants to press himself as close as he can, just climb into Bruce’s lap and submit to him.

Bruce doesn’t move for a long while. He lets Jason cling to him and breathe until he calms down. He neither comforts nor reprimands Jason, but it’s better than nothing. Jason will take whatever the man will give him.

“G’night, Bruce.”

He wakes to an empty, cold bed. He wishes he hadn’t expected anything more than that.

Sometimes, he can convince himself he misses him.

He was just a stupid kid. Willis was good to him when he could be. It wasn’t bad. It didn’t even happen, for all he knows.

He can’t remember much, but he tries to. For mom’s sake. But it’s like it’s all faded into the background now that Willis is gone. The anger he clung to has all but been sucked from his bones. The hatred that kept all the ugly parts of him stitched together has dried up and slipped through the cracks in his skin. Soon, there won’t be anything left, and he’ll have forgotten everything it meant to be Willis’s son. Soon, he’ll forget Willis entirely.

Isn’t that what he wants? All these years, all he’s ever dreamed of is to be rid of Willis and everything the man represents.

But now that Willis is well and truly gone, he can’t remember why he wanted him gone in the first place.

“Do you like it here?”

_" **You like it, don’t’cha?** "_

Jason glances at Bruce sharply, the man watching him steadily from his seat next to the fire. He’s reading Dickens this time.

Jason thinks of the lasagna Alfred made for dinner. Jason’s never had lasagna before. He’s never had three square meals a day. He’s never had the luxury to relax and read a book, build a fort with the fallen limbs of a tree, bake a batch of fucking chocolate chip cookies. He’s never had anyone give him band-aids.

He’s never had anyone care.

“I don’t know.”

Bruce doesn’t speak again. Jason mulls that over. That lump in his throat is back.

He doesn’t know what Bruce’s silence means. He can’t tell if he’s upset. What if he’s angry? Why didn’t Jason lie? Will he be sent away?

Will he have to say goodbye?

The next day, Bruce leaves on a week-long business trip.

“Master Dick will be visiting for the day,” Alfred announces on the second morning of Bruce’s absence.

Jason’s bent over his math textbook with a scowl on his face, but it dissolves almost immediately. “R—Dick is? The previous Robin?” He can’t help how incredulous he sounds. Sure, Alfred’s mentioned the guy’s a hero called Nightwing now, but Jason was under the impression they’re on the outs.

“Yes,” Alfred replies. “He should be here this afternoon.” He raises an eyebrow pointedly at Jason’s bad posture, and Jason begrudgingly straightens his spine.

“Is he… Is it okay for me to be here?”

Alfred hums, though he doesn’t respond for a moment, seemingly pondering Jason’s question. “I don’t see why not.”

“But I’m his… I stole—” He grunts, cutting that sentence short. He isn’t sure what he’s trying to say. _I stole Robin from him,_ maybe. But that isn’t true; Dick walked away from Robin, that much Jason knows, and he can only speculate why. So far, being Robin hasn’t been easy, but it’s better than the alternative. Maybe Dick’s a stuck-up brat who doesn’t like work. Maybe he got tired of fucking Batman.

Alfred waves a hand at Jason. “Come. I require your assistance in the kitchen. Master Dick will want his favorite for dinner.”

Yeah, stuck-up indeed.

He’s in the parlor when Dick arrives. He can pinpoint the exact moment because a loud, booming, _“ALFRED!”_ rings through the front hall, and he jumps almost five feet in the air.

Wearily, he pokes his head around the parlor door. Alfred and a dark-haired young man are embracing, the latter smiling brightly. Alfred’s own smile is significantly more pragmatic but no less warm. He even honest-to-god _ruffles_ the guy’s hair. Alfred does not _ruffle_ anyone’s hair!

Jason clicks his tongue sourly, watching them finish their disgusting hug and talk nineteen to the dozen. Well, Dick talks, Alfred listens patiently, a fond look settling into the wrinkles of his face. Dick practically talks the old guy’s ear off, and he doesn’t even seem bothered by it!

In a move eerily similar to Bruce’s, Dick abruptly ceases his incessant babbling, eyes zeroing in on Jason.

“You must be Jason,” he says.

All of the excitement from before is gone. He rakes his eyes up and down Jason’s body as though assessing him. He must not think much of what he sees because he all but sneers.

Well, Jason isn’t impressed by this prissy rich boy, either. He steps into the hall with his fists in his pockets and stares right back.

“Yeah. You must be _Dick_.”

Lunch is an awkward affair. Jason is almost tempted to escape to another part of the manor and hide until Dick gets the freaking hint, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before he ever gives up food.

They’re in the kitchen nook. He likes eating lunch here, just Alfred and him. He does _not_ like Dick invading their routine like a butler-stealing _bitch._

Alfred and Dick are engrossed in their discussion of Bludhaven. It’s _Dick_ this, _Nightwing_ that. Jason doesn’t bother hiding his eye-roll in his bowl of carrot soup. It isn’t like Alfred’s paying attention to him anyhow.

After patiently listening to Dick explain a new feature of some tech Lucius is designing for him (in excessive detail, by the way), Alfred excuses himself to clear their dishes.

“Let me help!” Jason insists, jumping up from the table. He likes doing the dishes with Alfred, being in the kitchen with him. Alfred doesn’t usually let him do much besides dry, but it’s better than leaving it all up to Alfred. He already manages to keep an entire manor pristine; he could use the help.

Jason doesn’t miss the prudish bastard’s scoff.

When Bruce returns from his trip, it’s like nothing ever happened. But what did Jason expect to change? Bruce doesn’t want him.

It’s a bitter realization. Nobody’s ever wanted Jason, but his body’s always been good enough. Jason thought he’d be good enough for Bruce too, but he’s quickly come to realize he’ll always be trash in Bruce’s eyes. He’s so far below Bruce’s standards he can’t ever hope to see the surface.

Before he knows it, it's been two months at the manor and Jason has fuck all to show for it. He's never felt so... whatever he's feeling. He can't even recognize what's churning his gut in this awful way. Is it anger? If so, what's the cause? Or better yet, who is it directed at? Bruce?

No. Bruce is a nice man. Probably the nicest man Jason knows. Sure, he can be unbearable at times, but we all have our faults. Jason just wishes he would...

Hm. So that's what this is. His insatiable desires. The realization makes bile crawl up his throat.

"You never know when to quit," Willis said once when he had Jason on his back on the bed he was conceived in. Jason hadn't understood at the time. He'd gotten in trouble for mouthing off in class—so what? He didn't deserve this.

But Willis made it known how much he did deserve it. How much Jason still deserves it.

Maybe that's why Jason is so unsatisfied with his current arrangement. He should be overjoyed an old man doesn't want at him.

Right?

Convincing himself is a difficult task. Bruce has noticed his restlessness, his inability to hold back when faced with the filthiest of Gotham's thugs. He recognizes some of them. Some were his clients. Some were friends with Willis. Others... well, it's best not to dwell on those. He just feels too much too strongly. He doesn't know what to do with it. Now stripped of his one outlet, he's lost, adrift in swirling emotions. He feels like a piece of debris in a hurricane. 

He wishes he knew when it started.

Wouldn’t that be better? He tells himself that if he knew when it started, he could piece together the rest. What unforgivable thing had he done? How old was he? Did he make Willis angry one too many times? How badly had he fucked up?

He hasn’t questioned his parents’ rationale in a long time. It’s been years and Jason still doesn’t know, but he thinks he gets it now. He deserved it and he’ll never understand why because he simply can’t remember. 

When he thinks back as far as he can, Willis was always an impenetrable wall of _mean_. Even when he was nice, he was still a jerk about it somehow. Jason isn’t sure how that’s possible, still can’t quite wrap his head around it now because even when Willis was bad, all Jason wanted was to be with him. 

“You’re such a stupid fuck,” Willis would say. “Followin’ me ‘round like a lovesick puppy. I don’t _want_ you. I don’t want _any_ of this. Just ‘cause I’m stuck with you don’t mean I have to be nice. When you gonna learn, Jason. Huh? When you gonna learn you don’t _deserve_ to _be here?”_

Jason's learned the lesson Willis drilled into him.

Perhaps it's all this that leads him to Bruce's room once again. Perhaps this will be the end of his conflicting feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos appreciated!


End file.
